letters—I have seen many of them—were the most uncommunicative
documents that I ever saw in my life. His wanderings took him to many
strange places on the other side of the globe, but he never wrote
of what he saw or did. His family gleaned from them that his health
was good, that the weather was such-and-such, and that he wished to
have his love, duty, and respects conveyed to his various relatives.
In fact, the first positive bit of personal intelligence that they
received from him was five years after his departure, when he wrote
them from a Chinese port on letter-paper whose heading showed that he
was a member of a commercial firm. The letter itself made no mention
of the fact. As the years passed on, however, the letters came more
regularly and they told less about the weather, and were slightly—very
slightly—more expressive of a kind regard for his relatives. But at
the best they were cramped by the formality of his day and generation,
and we of to-day would have called them cold and perfunctory.
But the practical assurances that he gave of his undiminished—nay,
his steadily increasing—affection for the people at home, were of a
most satisfying character, for they were convincing proof not only of
his love but of his material prosperity. Almost from his first time
of writing he began to send gifts to all the members of the family. At
first these were mere trifles, little curios of travel such as he was
able to purchase out of a seaman’s scanty wages; but as the years went
on they grew richer and richer, till the munificence of the runaway son
became the pride of the whole family.
The old house that had been in the suburbs of Boston was fairly in
the heart of the city when I first made its acquaintance, and one of
the famous houses of the town. And it was no wonder it was famous,
for such a collection of Oriental furniture, bric-à-brac, and objects
of art never was seen outside of a museum. There were ebony cabinets,
book-cases, tables, and couches wonderfully carved and inlaid with
mother-of-pearl. There were beautiful things in bronze and jade and
ivory. There were all sorts of strange rugs and curtains and portières.
As to the china-ware and the vases, no house was ever so stocked; and
as for such trifles as shawls and fans and silk handkerchiefs, why such
things were sent not singly but by dozens.
No one could forget his first entrance into that house. The great
drawing-room was darkened by heavy curtains, and at first you had
only a dim vision of the strange and graceful shapes of its curious
furnishing. But you could not but be instantly conscious of the
delicate perfume that pervaded the apartment, and, for the matter of
that, the whole house. It was a combination of all the delightful
Eastern smells—not sandal-wood only, nor teak, nor couscous, but all
these odors and a hundred others blent in one. Yet it was not heavy nor
overpowering, but delightfully faint and sweet, diffused through those
ample rooms. There was good reason, indeed, for the children of the
generation to which my wife belonged to speak of the generous relative
whom they had never seen as “Our Aromatic Uncle.” There were other
uncles, and I have no doubt they gave presents freely, for it was a
wealthy and free-handed family; but there was no other uncle who sent
such a delicate and delightful reminder with every gift, to breathe a
soft memory of him by day and by night.
* * * * *
I did my courting in the sweet atmosphere of that house, and, although
I had no earthly desire to live in Boston, I could not help missing
that strangely blended odor when my wife and I moved into an old house
in an old part of New York, whose former owners had no connections in
the Eastern trade. It was a charming and home-like old house; but at
first, although my wife had brought some belongings from her father’s
house, we missed the pleasant flavor of our aromatic uncle, for he was
now my uncle, as well as my wife’s. I say at first, for we did not miss
it long. Uncle David—that was his name—not only continued to send
his fragrant gifts to my wife at Christmas and upon her birthday, but
he actually adopted me, too, and sent me Chinese cabinets and Chinese
gods in various minerals and metals, and many articles designed for a
smoker’s use, which no smoker would ever want to touch with a ten-foot
pole. But I cared very little about the utility of these presents,
for it was not many years before, among them all, they set up that
exquisite perfume in the house, which we had learned to associate with
our aromatic uncle.
“FOO-CHOO-LI, CHINA, January—, 18—.
“DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE: The Present is to inform you that I have this
day shipped to your address, per Steamer Ocean Queen, one marble and
ebony Table, six assorted gods, and a blue Dinner set; also that I
purpose leaving this Country for a visit to the Land of my Nativity
on the 6th of March next, and will, if same is satisfactory to you,
take up my Abode temporarily in your household. Should same not be
satisfactory, please cable at my charge. Messrs. Smithson & Smithson,
my Customs Brokers, will attend to all charges on the goods, and will
deliver them at your readiness. The health of this place is better
than customary by reason of the cool weather, which Health I am as
usual enjoying. Trusting that you both are at present in possession
of the same Blessing, and will so continue, I remain, dear nephew and
niece,
“Your affectionate
“UNCLE.”
* * * * *
This was, I believe, by four dozen words—those which he used to inform
us of his intention of visiting America—the longest letter that Uncle
David had ever written to any member of his family. It also conveyed
more information about himself than he had ever given since the day he
ran away to sea. Of course we cabled the old gentleman that we should
be delighted to see him.
And, late that spring, at some date at which he could not possibly have
been expected to arrive, he turned up at our house.
Of course we had talked a great deal about him, and wondered what
manner of a man we should find him. Between us, my wife and I had got
an idea of his personal appearance which I despair of conveying in
words. Vaguely, I should say that we had pictured him as something
mid-way between an abnormally tall Chinese mandarin and a benevolent
Quaker. What we found when we got home and were told that our uncle
from India was awaiting us, was a shrunken and bent old gentleman,
dressed very cleanly and neatly in black broadcloth, with a limp,
many-pleated shirt-front of old-fashioned style, and a plain black
cravat. If he had worn an old-time stock we could have forgiven him
the rest of the disappointment he cost us; but we had to admit to
ourselves that he had the most absolutely commonplace appearance of
all our acquaintance. In fact, we soon discovered that, except for a
taciturnity the like of which we had never encountered, our aromatic
uncle had positively not one picturesque characteristic about him. Even
his aroma was a disappointment. He had it, but it was patchouly or some
other cheap perfume of the sort, wherewith he scented his handkerchief,
which was not even a bandanna, but a plain decent white one of the
unnecessarily large sort which clergymen and old gentlemen affect.
But, even if we could not get one single romantic association to
cluster about him, we very soon got to like the old gentleman. It is
true that at our first meeting, after saying “How d’ye do” to me and
receiving in impassive placidity the kiss which my wife gave him, he
relapsed into dead silence, and continued to smoke a clay pipe with a
long stem and a short bowl. This instrument he filled and re-filled
every few minutes, and it seemed to be his only employment. We plied
him with questions, of course, but to these he responded with a
wonderful brevity. In the course of an hour’s conversation we got from
him that he had had a pleasant voyage, that it was not a long voyage,
that it was not a short voyage, that it was about the usual voyage,
that he had not been seasick, that he was glad to be back, and that
he was not surprised to find the country very much changed. This last
piece of information was repeated in the form of a simple “No,” given
in reply to the direct question; and although it was given politely,
and evidently without the least unamiable intent, it made us both feel
very cheap. After all, it was absurd to ask a man if he were surprised
to find the country changed after fifty or sixty years of absence.
Unless he was an idiot, and unable to read at that, he must have
expected something of the sort.
But we grew to like him. He was thoroughly kind and inoffensive in
every way. He was entirely willing to be talked to, but he did not
care to talk. If it was absolutely necessary, he _could_ talk, and when
he did talk he always made me think of the “French-English Dictionary
for the Pocket,” compiled by the ingenious Mr. John Bellows; for nobody
except that extraordinary Englishman could condense a greater amount
of information into a smaller number of words. During the time of his
stay with us I think I learned more about China than any other man in
the United States knew, and I do not believe that the aggregate of his
utterances in the course of that six months could have amounted to one
hour’s continuous talk. Don’t ask me for the information. I had no
sort of use for it, and I forgot it as soon as I could. I like Chinese
bric-à-brac, but my interest in China ends there.
Yet it was not long before Uncle David slid into his own place in the
family circle. We soon found that he did not expect us to entertain
him. He wanted only to sit quiet and smoke his pipe, to take his two
daily walks by himself, and to read the daily paper one afternoon and
Macaulay’s “History of England” the next. He was never tired of sitting
and gazing amiably but silently at my wife; and, to head the list of
his good points, he would hold the baby by the hour, and for some
mysterious reason that baby, who required the exhibition of seventeen
toys in a minute to be reasonably quiet in the arms of anybody else,
would sit placidly in Uncle David’s lap, teething away steadily on the
old gentleman’s watch-chain, as quiet and as solemn and as aged in
appearance as any one of the assorted gods of porcelain and jade and
ivory which our aromatic uncle had sent us.
* * * * *
The old house in Boston was a thing of the past. My wife’s parents
had been dead for some years, and no one remained of her immediate
family except a certain Aunt Lucretia, who had lived with them until
shortly before our marriage, when the breaking up of the family sent
her West to find a home with a distant relative in California. We asked
Uncle Davy if he had stopped to see Aunt Lucretia as he came through
California. He said he had not. We asked him if he wanted to have
Aunt Lucretia invited on to pass a visit during his stay with us. He
answered that he did not. This did not surprise us at all. You might
think that a brother might long to see a sister from whom he had been
separated nearly all of a long lifetime, but then you might never have
met Aunt Lucretia. My wife made the offer only from a sense of duty;
and only after a contest with me which lasted three days and nights.
Nothing but loss of sleep during an exceptionally busy time at my
office induced me to consent to her project of inviting Aunt Lucretia.
When Uncle David put his veto upon the proposition I felt that he might
have taken back all his rare and costly gifts, and I could still have
loved him.
But Aunt Lucretia came, all the same. My wife is afflicted with a New
England conscience, originally of a most uncomfortable character. It
has been much modified and ameliorated, until it is now considerably
less like a case of moral hives; but some wretched lingering remnant
of the original article induced her to write to Aunt Lucretia that
Uncle David was staying with us, and of course Aunt Lucretia came
without invitation and without warning, dropping in on us with ruthless
unexpectedness.
* * * * *
You may not think, from what I have said, that Aunt Lucretia’s visit
was a pleasant event. But it was, in some respects; for it was not only
the shortest visit she ever paid us, but it was the last with which
she ever honored us.
She arrived one morning shortly after breakfast, just as we were
preparing to go out for a drive. She would not have been Aunt Lucretia
if she had not upset somebody’s calculations at every turn of her
existence. We welcomed her with as much hypocrisy as we could summon to
our aid on short notice, and she was not more than usually offensive,
although she certainly did herself full justice in telling us what she
thought of us for not inviting her as soon as we even heard of Uncle
David’s intention to return to his native land. She said she ought to
have been the first to embrace her beloved brother—to whom I don’t
believe she had given one thought in more years than I have yet seen.
Uncle David was dressing for his drive. His long residence in tropical
countries had rendered him sensitive to the cold, and although it was
a fine, clear September day, with the thermometer at about sixty, he
was industriously building himself up with a series of overcoats. On a
really snappy day I have known him to get into six of these garments;
and when he entered the room on this occasion I think he had on five,
at least.
My wife had heard his familiar foot on the stairs, and Aunt Lucretia
had risen up and braced herself for an outburst of emotional affection.
I could see that it was going to be such a greeting as is given only
once in two or three centuries, and then on the stage. I felt sure it
would end in a swoon, and I was looking around for a sofa-pillow for
the old lady to fall upon, for from what I knew of Aunt Lucretia I did
not believe she had ever swooned enough to be able to go through the
performance without danger to her aged person.
But I need not have troubled myself. Uncle David toddled into the
room, gazed at Aunt Lucretia without a sign of recognition in his
features, and toddled out into the hall, where he got his hat and
gloves, and went out to the front lawn, where he always paced up and
down for a few minutes before taking a drive, in order to stimulate his
circulation. This was a surprise, but Aunt Lucretia’s behavior was a
greater surprise. The moment she set eyes on Uncle David the theatrical
fervor went out of her entire system, literally in one instant; and an
absolutely natural, unaffected astonishment displayed itself in her
expressive and strongly marked features. For almost a minute, until the
sound of Uncle David’s footsteps had died away, she stood absolutely
rigid; while my wife and I gazed at her spellbound.
Then Aunt Lucretia pointed one long bony finger at me, and hissed out
with a true feminine disregard of grammar:
“That ain’t _him_!”
* * * * *
“David,” said Aunt Lucretia, impressively, “had only one arm. He lost
the other in Madagascar.”
I was too dumbfounded to take in the situation. I remember thinking,
in a vague sort of way, that Madagascar was a curious sort of place to
go for the purpose of losing an arm; but I did not apprehend the full
significance of this disclosure until I heard my wife’s distressed
protestations that Aunt Lucretia must be mistaken; there must be some
horrible mistake somewhere.
But Aunt Lucretia was not mistaken, and there was no mistake anywhere.
The arm had been lost, and lost in Madagascar, and she could give the
date of the occurrence, and the circumstances attendant. Moreover,
she produced her evidence on the spot. It was an old daguerreotype,
taken in Calcutta a year or two after the Madagascar episode. She had
it in her hand-bag, and she opened it with fingers trembling with
rage and excitement. It showed two men standing side by side near
one of those three-foot Ionic pillars that were an indispensable
adjunct of photography in its early stages. One of the men was large,
broad-shouldered, and handsome—unmistakably a handsome edition of
Aunt Lucretia. His empty left sleeve was pinned across his breast. The
other man was, making allowance for the difference in years, no less
unmistakably the Uncle David who was at that moment walking to and fro
under our windows. For one instant my wife’s face lighted up.
“Why, Aunt Lucretia,” she cried, “there he is! That’s Uncle David, dear
Uncle David.”
“There he is _not_,” replied Aunt Lucretia. “That’s his business
partner—some common person that he picked up on the ship he first
sailed in—and, upon my word, I do believe it’s that wretched creature
outside. And I’ll Uncle David _him_.”
She marched out like a grenadier going to battle, and we followed her
meekly. There was, unfortunately, no room for doubt in the case. It
only needed a glance to see that the man with one arm was a member of
my wife’s family, and that the man by his side, _our_ Uncle David, bore
no resemblance to him in stature or features.
Out on the lawn Aunt Lucretia sailed into the dear old gentleman in the
five overcoats with a volley of vituperation. He did not interrupt her,
but stood patiently to the end, listening, with his hands behind his
back; and when, with her last gasp of available breath, Aunt Lucretia
demanded:
“Who—who—who _are_ you, you wretch?” he responded, calmly and
respectfully:
“I’m Tommy Biggs, Miss Lucretia.”
But just here my wife threw herself on his neck and hugged him, and
cried:
“You’re my own dear Uncle David, _anyway_!”
It was a fortunate, a gloriously fortunate, inspiration. Aunt Lucretia
drew herself up in speechless scorn, stretched forth her bony finger,
tried to say something and failed, and then she and her hand-bag went
out of my gates, never to come in again.
* * * * *
When she had gone, our aromatic uncle—for we shall always continue to
think of him in that light, or rather in that odor—looked thoughtfully
after her till she disappeared, and then made one of the few remarks I
ever knew him to volunteer.
“Ain’t changed a mite in forty-seven years.”
Up to this time I had been in a dazed condition of mind. As I have
said, my wife’s family was extinct save for herself and Aunt Lucretia,
and she remembered so little of her parents, and she looked herself
so little like Aunt Lucretia, that it was small wonder that neither
of us remarked Uncle David’s unlikeness to the family type. We knew
that he did not resemble the ideal we had formed of him; and that had
been the only consideration we had given to his looks. Now, it took
only a moment of reflection to recall the fact that all the members of
the family had been tall and shapely, and that even between the ugly
ones, like Aunt Lucretia, and the pretty ones, like my wife, there was
a certain resemblance. Perhaps it was only the nose—the nose is the
brand in most families, I believe—but whatever it was, I had only to
see my wife and Aunt Lucretia together to realize that the man who had
passed himself off as our Uncle David had not one feature in common
with either of them—nor with the one-armed man in the daguerreotype. I
was thinking of this, and looking at my wife’s troubled face, when our
aromatic uncle touched me on the arm.
“I’ll explain,” he said, “to you. _You_ tell _her_.”
We dismissed the carriage, went into the house, and sat down. The old
gentleman was perfectly cool and collected, but he lit his clay pipe,
and reflected for a good five minutes before he opened his mouth. Then
he began:
“Finest man in the world, sir. Finest _boy_ in the world. Never
anything like him. But, peculiarities. Had ’em. Peculiarities.
Wouldn’t write home. Wouldn’t”—here he hesitated—“send things home.
I had to do it. Did it for him. Didn’t want his folks to know. Other
peculiarities. Never had any money. Other peculiarities. Drank. Other
peculiarities. Ladies. Finest man in the world, all the same. Nobody
like him. Kept him right with his folks for thirty-one years. Then
died. Fever. Canton. Never been myself since. Kept right on writing,
all the same. Also”—here he hesitated again—“sending things. Why?
Don’t know. Been a fool all my life. Never could do anything but make
money. No family, no friends. Only _him_. Ran away to sea to look after
him. Did look after him. Thought maybe your wife would be some like
him. Barring peculiarities, she is. Getting old. Came here for company.
Meant no harm. Didn’t calculate on Miss Lucretia.”
Here he paused and smoked reflectively for a minute or two.
“Hot in the collar—Miss Lucretia. Haughty. Like him, some. Just like
she was forty-seven years ago. Slapped my face one day when I was
delivering meat, because my jumper wasn’t clean. Ain’t changed a mite.”
This was the first condensed statement of the case of our aromatic
uncle. It was only in reply to patient, and, I hope, loving, gentle,
and considerate, questioning that the whole story came out—at once
pitiful and noble—of the poor little butcher-boy who ran away to sea
to be body-guard, servant, and friend to the splendid, showy, selfish
youth whom he worshipped; whose heartlessness he cloaked for many a
long year, who lived upon his bounty, and who died in his arms, nursed
with a tenderness surpassing that of a brother. And as far as I could
find out, ingratitude and contempt had been his only reward.
* * * * *
I need not tell you that when I repeated all this to my wife she ran
to the old gentleman’s room and told him all the things that I should
not have known how to say—that we cared for him; that we wanted him to
stay with us; that he was far, far more our uncle than the brilliant,
unprincipled scapegrace who had died years before, dead for almost a
lifetime to the family who idolized him; and that we wanted him to stay
with us as long as kind heaven would let him. But it was of no use. A
change had come over our aromatic uncle which we could both of us see,
but could not understand. The duplicity of which he had been guilty
weighed on his spirit. The next day he went out for his usual walk, and
he never came back. We used every means of search and inquiry, but we
never heard from him until we got this letter from Foo-choo-li:
* * * * *
“DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE: The present is to inform you that I am
enjoying the Health that might be expected at my Age, and in my
condition of Body, which is to say bad. I ship you by to-day’s
steamer, Pacific Monarch, four dozen jars of ginger, and two dozen
ditto preserved oranges, to which I would have added some other
Comfits, which I purposed offering for your acceptance, if it wore
not that my Physician has forbidden me to leave my Bed. In case of
Fatal Results from this trying Condition, my Will, duly attested, and
made in your favor, will be placed in your hands by Messrs. Smithson
& Smithson, my Customs Brokers, who will also pay all charges on
goods sent. The Health of this place being unfavorably affected by the
Weather, you are unlikely to hear more from,
“Dear Nephew and Niece,
“Your affectionate
“UNCLE.”
And we never did hear more—except for his will—from Our Aromatic
Uncle; but our whole house still smells of his love.
QUALITY
BY
JOHN GALSWORTHY
Here the emphasis is upon character. The plot is negligible—hardly
exists. The setting is carefully worked out because it is essential
to the characterization. By means of the shoemaker the author reveals
at least a part of his philosophy of life—that there is a subtle
relation between a man and his work. Each reacts on the other. If a man
recognizes the Soul of Things and strives to give it proper expression,
he becomes an Artist and influences for good all who come into contact
with him.
QUALITY[22]
I knew him from the days of my extreme youth, because he made my
father’s boots; inhabiting with his elder brother two little shops let
into one, in a small by-street—now no more, but then most fashionably
placed in the West End.
That tenement had a certain quiet distinction; there was no sign
upon its face that he made for any of the Royal Family—merely his
own German name of Gessler Brothers; and in the window a few pairs
of boots. I remember that it always troubled me to account for those
unvarying boots in the window, for he made only what was ordered,
reaching nothing down, and it seemed so inconceivable that what he
made could ever have failed to fit. Had he bought them to put there?
That, too, seemed inconceivable. He would never have tolerated in his
house leather on which he had not worked himself. Besides, they were
too beautiful—the pair of pumps, so inexpressibly slim, the patent
leathers with cloth tops, making water come into one’s mouth, the tall
brown riding boots with marvellous sooty glow, as if, though new, they
had been worn a hundred years. Those pairs could only have been made by
one who saw before him the Soul of Boot—so truly were they prototypes
incarnating the very spirit of all foot-gear. These thoughts, of
course, came to me later, though even when I was promoted to him, at
the age of perhaps fourteen, some inkling haunted me of the dignity of
himself and brother. For to make boots—such boots as he made—seemed
to me then, and still seems to me, mysterious and wonderful.
I remember well my shy remark, one day, while stretching out to him my
youthful foot:
“Isn’t it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?”
And his answer, given with a sudden smile from out of the sardonic
redness of his beard: “Id is an Ardt!”